I start a reply, then delete it and simply call the number, panic swimming through me. It rings out. I end the call and text instead, holding the phone against the steering wheel as I drive.
Who is this?
Don’t make the same mistake twice.
He’s already on his way
In answer to my question, at the end of the text he’s signed it off as if he’s writing an email.
Leon
Do you mean DS Holt? Is he the one?
I push down on the accelerator and pull out to overtake the car in front. I’ve just pushed the phone back into its cradle when it rings, the Bluetooth-connected speakers bouncing the sound around inside my car.
‘Ellen?’ Gilbourne’s voice is taut with tension. ‘Tell me you’re still at the hotel.’
‘No,’ I say, overtaking a van. ‘I’m in my car.’
‘Listen to me very carefully, Ellen, do you trust me?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I need you to turn around and go back to your hotel, lock the door and wait until I call you back. Do not open the door toanyone, do you understand? Not the manager, not DS Holt, no one at all, until I let you know it’s safe and give you the all-clear.’
‘What’s happening, Stuart?’
There is a pause on the line, road noise, traffic, muffled conversations in the background.
‘Dominic Church has shaken off his surveillance and he’s on the move. I have units out looking for him but I need to be sure you’re safe in case he comes for you.’
‘This is it, isn’t it?’ Pressure is building at the base of my throat, the pain rising into my larynx. ‘What about Holt? Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gilbourne says, almost shouting with frustration. ‘He’s not answering his phone.’
‘Where did they lose the surveillance on Church? Where was he?’
‘Ellen, you need to go back to the—’
‘Just tell me!’
There is another pause on the other end of the line. Engine noise, the pitch rising, a siren wailing close by.
‘The last ANPR hit we had for his car reg was on the A40, heading north-west out of London.’
‘You mean he’s going towards Prestwood Ash.’
‘We don’t know that for certain but we’ve got the situation under—’
I hit end and push the accelerator flat to the floor.
62
I speed the rest of the way there, breaking limits on every single road, my hands in a death grip tight around the wheel. I can’t sit in a locked room waiting for the phone to ring: I have to know that Mia is safe. I flash through Prestwood Ash and hit the country road out the other side, pushing up to seventy miles an hour before standing on the brakes as the turn-off for The Grange comes into view. The gates are open and I skid into the driveway in a slew of gravel, almost clipping the wall as I accelerate through and on up to the house.
There’s a black Ford Focus in the driveway, parked at an angle opposite the Mercedes and the Range Rover I saw yesterday. There are no police cars. No uniforms, no flashing lights. No helicopters buzzing overhead. Just the wind high up in the trees, bare autumn branches swaying against a gunmetal grey sky. The sound of dogs barking furiously comes from somewhere around the rear of the house. I jump out of my car, shoes crunching over the gravel, looking into each of the cars in turn. A doll discarded on the back seat of the Mercedes; no movement behind any of the windows at the front of the house. The front door itself is ajar, only a few inches, but it’s enough to see a thin slice of the dark hallway beyond.
Is Dominic Church here?Someoneis here.
